


Dynamics

by Barb G (troutkitty)



Category: Torchwood
Genre: BDSM, Bondage, Corporal Punishment, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-03-22
Updated: 2008-03-22
Packaged: 2017-10-24 15:48:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/265228
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/troutkitty/pseuds/Barb%20G
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What Jack would do for his team.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dynamics

**Author's Note:**

> Beta'ed by the amazing devohoneybee and bittermint. Any mistakes remaining are of course mine. This is for my darling daemonluna who said last week, "Do you know what would be hot?"

Owen had gone in first. Ordinarily, Jack was the first to admit that wasn’t a problem. Only idiot Owen had been made as Torchwood earlier the same day and turns out the rift raiders were not only horribly slimy creatures with barbed, poisonous mandibles, they were telepathic and acid spitting as well.

So instead of the job being a crack surgical strike, it was almost a bollocking, and not the happy fun kind. Tosh had saved the day, turning off the power to the compound -- and as it turned out half of Cardiff -- and Ianto happened to have enough baking soda on him to reduce the acid danger down to the threat of really bad dog drool. All and all, it was a win for the team.

Drinks drank, bottles recycled, Tosh and Gwen took a cab home. Ianto disappeared into the back rooms. Jack watched from the door way as Owen began the dissection on one of the fallen mandibles that had fallen while the surfers were tagged, pH neutralized and contained.

"Owen, my office,” Jack said.

Owen stared at him with cold, blank eyes. Jack had already turned to go, and felt the lack of obedience the same way he would have felt an electrical storm gathering over the rift. He twisted on his heel, and carefully placed his hands on the gurney that separated him from where Owen stood.

"Shall I count to three?” Jack asked, eyebrow raised.

"If you must,” Owen said, voice flat.

"Three,” Jack counted. "Now get in my office."

"Or what?” Owen’s voice was a challenge, as direct as any slap with a gauntlet, but his eyes were wide. Like pools of darkness, and there was a different kind of challenge in them. He wanted the bollocking, probably needed it, in fact. If Jack wanted, the invitation was there to knock him over the gurney, line up, and fuck him into the stain-resistant, fire-retardant sheet.

"That may be what you want, but is it what you need?” Jack asked, and took another step forward.

"What are you saying?” Owen demanded, but didn’t step back. Not even as Jack came all the way around the gurney.

"In my day, you would have been strung up and horse whipped for your insubordination.” Jack narrowed his eyes. "Tell me I’m wrong.”

"You’re—" Owen snapped, but his eyes were bright now. The black pupils took up more of the darkness of his eyes.

"Wrong,” Jack repeated. "Just purse your lips and blow. It’s not that hard of a word to say.”

"I’m not going to let you—" Owen didn’t finish. Jack didn’t expect him too. His face was flushed. The rush of blood to his otherwise pale skin could have been anger, but it wasn’t.

"Of course you’re not going to let me,” Jack said, soothingly. He’d never actually horse whipped a horse, or a subordinate, now that he thought about it. Charm worked on four-legged beasties as much as the two-legged variety, but he’d do what he had to for his team. "That’s the whole point, isn’t it?”

"Jack,” Owen began, holding out his hands, but again, his words died. There was a set of restraints on the table left over from the surfer who’d molted rather than gone quietly. Owen looked down to them first, then back up to Jack, and relaxed. His hands fell to his sides. With a minor adjustment, the cuffs fit well over Owen’s wrists. A sturdy guard rail from the gurney which was good enough for the restraints, and Jack's mastery over the buttons and clasps of early twenty-first Century men's clothing took care of the clothes between thm. Owen's jeans had to be peeled from his hips as tight as they were. Jack refrained himself from the quick nip he wanted to give Owen, but kissed him instead, just once on the small of his back. He kicked the jeans away and they skittered across the floor. Owen's sweater joined it a moment later and Jack let Owen pull on the restraints, naked for a good minute.

Jack’s belt felt good doubled over neatly in his hand. Owen hadn’t started fighting yet, but he would, Jack knew. For right now, he didn’t like the need that radiated from Owen’s pale skin whenever the rough edges inside him scraped too close to the surface.

"Comfortable?”

"Like you give a toss,” Own snarled.

"I’ve given several tosses,” Jack said, mildly. "And one truly memorable role-play in this exact situation, in which—"

From somewhere in the hub, someone cleared his, her or Ianto’s throat. Jack moved on. "So you, I’d give another toss. In fact, I’d bet you a second toss that you’re more comfortable now than you have been all week.”

Now Owen fought. The wiry ones always did. Jack drummed his fingers against the taut skin of Owen’s hip and waited while Owen finished. It only made Owen fight harder.

"Aren’t you forgetting something?” Jack asked, still mild.

"What?” Owen bit off the word between clenched teeth.

"You’re supposed to be demanding that I let you go. Isn’t that the whole point to this debacle? You demand to be free, I laugh cavalierly and say no, then we move on to part two. Or is it that you don’t want to move on to part two?”

"This is all just a game to you,” Owen said, but stopped struggling.

Jack looped his belt around Owen’s throat, more carefully than Owen would ever know, but still pulled Owen’s head back. "No. Not a game. Never a game. You are going to learn to obey the orders I give you in hot situations or I will retcon you into next week. This is just the spoon full of sugar I’m letting you have if you’re a very good boy.”

"You’d retcon me,” Owen said. That, if nothing else, seemed to frighten him.

"You’d better believe it,” Jack said. He didn’t add, because this wasn’t the place, that he’d rather lose Owen than see him dead, but he was deadly serious.

Owen hung his head forward. "What are you waiting for?” He was no longer talking about the retcon.

"Your permission,” Jack said.

Owen took a deep breath. "Let me down or I’ll break your face,” he said, voice dull. There was a pause. "Please, Jack.”

"Thank you,” Jack said. The first blow caught Owen on the upper part of his thigh. His scream woke the weevils. Owen sobbed, bit it back, and leaned into the next two blows.

Jack stopped long enough to spread Owen’s legs further apart. Owen lost his balance, almost fell, and had to pull himself up by the shackles on his wrist. He put his head down between his forearms, bracing himself to the next set of blows, but Jack didn’t give him a chance to grow accustomed to the new angle. With his legs spread, the muscles on the back of his thigh stood out in stark relief. Jack caught him three more times, once so that the belt curled around Owen’s hip, once across the tender skin on the back of his thighs and, because Owen would not be expecting it, hard and sharp on his ass.

Owen gasped at that last one, though it probably hurt the least. Jack put the belt down, just for a second, and stroked the reddening skin, and that pulled a gasp and a shudder from Owen in a way the belt probably never could. His legs trembled, and he wrapped the bit of cord from the shackle to the rail of the gurney around his palm so that he’d stay standing.

Owen’s skin was soft to the touch. He smelled of some excessively modern deodorant, which was now fighting a losing battle to mask the smell of his arousal. Another time, perhaps later that night, Jack would run his fingers through Owen’s hair, knotting his fingers and pulling Owen’s head back, but for now he just stroked Owen’s back, giving him the time Owen needed to gather his breath back under control.

"I can stop if you want,” Jack said, knowing the words would sound cruel. He didn’t mean them to be, but there would be a part inside Owen that was screaming to take the deal, to end it and pull the shattered remains of his dignity together and stalk off into the night.

But they weren’t done yet.

And Owen knew it. He didn’t dignify Jack’s offer with a response, probably didn’t dare, but made another desperate sound in the back of his throat once he felt Jack pick up the belt again. Four more blows. Five, then six. Owen lost his ability to bite back the grunts his throat made, though it wasn’t until an deliberate, vicious blow landed on a tender part of his thigh that Jack heard him cry out.

But a dam had broken, and Jack had what he wanted. He smacked Owen four more times, all on the fleshy part of his ass, what fleshy part Owen had. Each time Owen howled like a banshee-bot from planet Zarbo’n. His face was wet in suspicious tear-track like places, but Jack would never mention it. Instead, he grabbed Owen’s hair, yanking his head back again, and it was nothing, nothing at all, to spread Owen’s legs even further. There was nothing holding Owen up but Jack’s hand in his hair and stubborn pride, but he had the mind to grind himself against Jack’s cock, now hard between them.

"I need you,” Jack said, not talking entirely with his dick. "This team needs you, but I need you more. I need you to call me on my bullshit, I need you to be the best damn doctor on alien physiology this side of the Greenwich line, and I need to always be able to have you with me. So if you ever go and do something stupid and put your fool hide in danger again, we’ll be right back here, right like this. Do you understand?”

"Aw, just fuck me already,” Owen growled.

Jack said nothing, just tightened his grip in Owen’s hair. For the longest time, Owen just squeezed his eyes against the pain and took it. He even pulled away, so that the individual roots Jack had gripped onto were just about to pull free. The pain tears were hot in Owen’s eyes, his own cock trapped against his belly and the gurney, and even with the agony Owen couldn’t stop himself from thrusting against the sheet.

"All right, all right!” Owen screamed, relaxing again, and Jack let go. His fingers hurt from the grip he’d had but he wasted no time in removing his own trousers. Well, maybe a little time, damn suspenders, and while he promised himself to question Owen later on why Torchwood funds had gone to buy the garish raspberry lube besides all the other surgical grade lubricants, he didn’t bother to do so right then.

Owen yanked himself back, but the fulcrum point was not his friend. He was brought up short, all desperation and need, and the very special brand of foreplay for Owen was over. Glob was such an unsexy word, unless applied to the way lube looked freshly applied to human skin, before it had a chance to melt with the body temperature, and Owen was so hot it barely stayed glob-like at all. Jack pushed one finger inside, testing the tension, and Owen fucked himself back on it, hard. "That’s just the lightning bug, boy,” Jack said, but let Owen have his little fun. When he withdrew, Owen didn’t stop, thrusting the air with about as much satisfaction, and he all but growled.

Jack slapped his hands down, bringing up two pink hand prints on already pink skin, and Owen flinched. Jack pushed his cock in, never getting tired of the give and take of the muscles around him, and as soon as Owen felt him go about half way in, he went rock still.

"You’re going to let me drive,” Jack said. Owen didn’t answer, but bit down on his upper arm. His eyes were squeezed shut, the damp eyelashes beautiful against his skin, and while Jack could have ridden him hard, pushing him down into the mattress and force out both their orgasms like a Trolfox pleasure palace fuck box (best shore leave he’d ever had on his unknowing commanding officer’s dime/line of credit) but that wasn’t what Owen needed.

Instead, he put his finger tips on Owen’s hip, guiding him back to meet his cock. Owen resisted, bucking away, but Jack kept up the gentle pressure. Owen had been more than willing to fuck himself on Jack’s finger hard enough to cause metal fatigue on the railing, but it was different now. He hesitated, still straining against his restraints, and then all at once let go. He sunk back down to his elbows, again burying his head in his arms, but let himself be pulled back, however slowly, until Jack felt his testicles nestle comfortably up against Owen’s hot, sweaty skin.

Jack let go, but when Owen tried to pull away too quickly, he stopped him. Nothing was said, nothing had to be said, but Jack showed Owen the pace he wanted. Owen, however stubbornly, let him. It gave optimal angle, a fine use of the full length and width of Jack’s cock, and a pace that allowed the refractory period of their nerves to build the tension rather than overwhelm it. Still, Jack held back, though he felt the sweat build on his forehead, his fingers that still offered the occasional course correction slipped on Owen’s own glistening skin. Jack sped the pace, which Owen leapt at. Jack slid a hand down Owen's belly and gripped Owen's cock. It provided the last bit of tension Owen obviously needed. He fucked himself into Jack's hand, the muscles of his entire body bunched and taut, thenOwen cried out again.

It was deep and guttural that Jack felt to the bottom of his testicles, and Owen’s orgasm pulled from him what he’d been denying himself. A lot of twenty-first century men had silly, residual hang-ups, but the rewards for getting past them were considerable. He dug his nails in, perhaps a bit harder than he intended to, or at least the last gasp from Owen could have been a yelp, and Jack was coming. Hard, sweet, and over far too soon. When he pulled free, he used a blue disposable surgical cloth to wipe them both off. Luckily Owen was still motionless on the gurney and didn’t see Jack stumble to throw the cloth away.

"I think I’ve learned a valuable lesson,” Owen said, in his best school boy lilt, then cursed as he tried to stand up. Jack pushed him down again, if only to get some slack in the shackles so that he could remove them, and just before the last shackle fell, he held his hand over the back of Owen’s neck, effectively pinning him again.

"I think you have to,” Jack said. Owen’s neck muscles tensed, wanting to push up against his palm but he didn’t, not yet. He waited for Jack to release him, and release him Jack did. Still Owen didn’t move, and Jack bent down so that his lips touched Owen’s ear.

"Fuck up again, and we’ll be right back here. But just once. I promise you that.”

Owen, not looking up, nodded.

Jack kissed the tip of Owen’s ear. It was a peck, really, and his lips barely touched the skin. Still, he couldn’t resist licking off the salt. "But you can ask for a refresher course, any time you’d like.”

Owen’s resulting groan had nothing to do with the residual pain his body must have still been feeling.

**Author's Note:**

> Sequel: [Dynamics II](http://archiveofourown.org/works/265233), Jack/Ianto


End file.
